Please Press Play (I)

Photo credit: Cindy Leah

I’ve always had a thing for sounds. The twitter of the birds early in the morning, the chirping of the crickets at dusk, the distinct sound every different piece of machinery makes. I’ve always been fascinated by sound.

My favourite sound is the sound of humans. Not the noisy, irritating chatter of students on their way back from class, or the general murmur that somehow accompanies a large gathering of people, no. I like the sound of even breathing, as a person sleeps. The sharp intake of breath when one is surprised. The hearty laugh when one is tickled. The sigh of pleasure, the quiet beating of a heart in a quiet room.

None of these though can compare to the human voice; distinct from person to person. Some raspy, some sultry, some deep, others lush and rich. I easily forget names, but I never forget a voice. I can meet a person and immediately decide that I dislike them because they sounded wrong. I could hate your guts but love your voice. Quite painfully, it’s the idiots who have the nicest voices. My fascination with voices is so deep-seated, that I’m turned on by them. 

I can be doing something totally mundane like buying groceries and then I would hear someone speak in a beautiful voice, and I’d be done for. I’d be so turned on, that I’d have to get home and rub one out. 

I have a particular weakness for whispers. Most voices, no matter how regular and boring, become deadly when they’re lowered to a whisper. You could be rattling off the books of the Bible in a whisper, and with the right lilt to your voice, I’d be flooded. 

This is not a weakness I share with most people. I’ve never found it strange. It’s just really intimate, and I rarely find intimacy in another human being. Quick lay? Sure. I mean, you’re turned on, I’m turned on. It could work as long as you kept your mouth shut, especially if your voice wasn’t one of those that made me sigh. 

Intimacy though is a whole different ball game. My ex had the most beautiful voice. Quiet and husky, it always melted my insides when he spoke to me. I could not want to have sex and all he’d have to do was read aloud. Anything. Any goddamn thing. All he had to do was read it in his beautiful voice that felt like – yes, you could feel his voice – a warm caress on cool skin, or a cool touch on fevered skin. 

It wakes all your senses from their slumber and then wraps you in a cocoon of warmth. You practically purr, just from being spoken to. 

Sometimes, foreplay was just him reading words to me out of a thesaurus. It was silly, it was fun and I enjoyed it. He did too. He loved how much power he wielded over my body with just his voice. Whenever we had to be apart, he’d record me an “audiobook”. 

The contents varied, but it usually was a story, very often a naughty one. Then, he’d tell me all the things he wanted to do to me, all the things he wanted me to do to him. It’d usually end with the sound of his pleasure because he’d be playing with himself the whole time he did that. I’d been taught by porn and too much smut that the male sound of pleasure isn’t very pleasant. He quickly disabused me of this notion. 

My brain had been taught to expect a guttural noise, an animal-sounding groan. Something raw and primal. I didn’t dislike it but I didn’t find it attractive. 

When he came, he didn’t groan or growl. His breath caught for a second or two, he closed his eyes, and then he let out a long breath like he’d been relieved of a terrible burden. It was a beautiful thing to watch, and to hear. I especially loved it when he said my name as he let out his breath. 

I have a thing for voices. I also have a thing for voices that say my name just right. Some just fling it off the tongue nonchalantly, not caring where it lands.

Then there are those who murmur your name like a prayer, like they are asking of you so much they don’t deserve. My favourite kind of people though are those who say your name like this; they caress the word as it leaves their lips, stroking each individual alphabet with their tongue as if to seduce your name and in so doing, seduce you.

Your name is beyond sacred to them, and they prove it each time they say it. This is how he said my name; like a prayer. Like I was a goddess and he was giving me the offering of his body. 

Like he couldn’t believe I’d give myself to him. Whenever he recorded me an audiobook, he said my name as he came, and it caused me to shudder deliciously. I loved it and he knew it. 

We broke up because one day he said a name that wasn’t mine and didn’t even realise it. I confronted him about it and he apologised. He did it again. And again. He was seeing someone else and I did not like to share. We broke up. I was a pathetic mess those first few weeks, listening over and over to the audios he’d recorded for me. We’d somehow managed to get up to 81 audios, over two years. 

I would listen to his voice on the way to work, at work, or at home. In short, I was torturing myself. I’d become addicted and I needed my fix. 

One afternoon, I was grocery shopping. My phone battery had died and so I had nothing to listen to. Instead, I focused on other sounds; the nearly imperceptible hum of the air conditioner, the sound of feet as they shuffled at the checkout line, shoppers picking up and putting things down again. 

I was in the liquor aisle, looking at a bottle of wine and deciding whether I wanted it or not. 

“You don’t want that bottle. Too dry. Here, this is much better__” 

I nearly dropped the bottle I was holding. His voice went straight to my clit. I drowned out the words he was saying and listened only to his voice. 

I just wanted him to keep talking. I was starved, and he was feeding me. Antagonising most people made them talkative. I tried it with him.

“Well, I could have tried it before and liked it.”

“Not the way you were holding it, you haven’t. This Chardonnay is___” 

I closed my eyes again to absorb the sound of him speaking. His voice entered me through my ears and then quickly spread to all parts of me; my fingertips, my toes, my elbows, my chest, my nipples and my clit. I was wet. Very wet. 

He was suddenly quiet and my eyes flew open. He was looking at me strangely. 

“I believe you were trying to convince me of the benefits of chardonnay over sauvignon blanc.”

“Well, you closed your eyes so I thought you were praying for patience. You probably want to slap the stranger who feels entitled enough to dictate to you what wine to drink.” 

“I find that shutting out one sense heightens the others. Closing my eyes was so I could hear you better.” I couldn’t even lie about it. I needed to put distance between myself and this man. I was dangerously close to jumping his bones. 

“Consider me convinced. I shall buy this bottle and should I hate it, I’d make sure to slap any stranger who is entitled enough to tell me what I want. How’s that?”

“And if you like it?” he cocked his head to one side quizzically. It lent him a boyish look that was endearing.

“Well, I’d be glad this stranger was entitled enough to dictate to me what to drink.”

Standing was difficult. I needed pressure and I needed it now. I refused, however, to touch myself in the bathroom of a mall. I wanted this man, this man with the voice that sounded like God if he had a mind to seduce a mortal woman. 

His voice was deep without being gruff. I wanted to describe it as husky but it was better than husky. It was such a pleasant sound to listen to, and with each word, I felt like he’d touched a part of my body. 

“I think you’ll be glad.”  He’d leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper. I put the bottle down immediately because I could not trust my body anymore. I bit back a moan. I needed to go. Immediately. I also needed this man’s number. Or needed him to take mine. In any case, I needed to find him again. 

My voice wasn’t my own. “Give me your phone.” He arched a brow but handed it over. I punched my number in. 

“Call me tomorrow and ask if I was glad.” I handed his phone back to him, picked up the bottle again and hurried to checkout. 


Leave a reply:

Your email address will not be published.